Same Same But Different
by Kerkerian-Horizon
Summary: After Sherlock's return, a lot of things have changed, things the detective has to learn to contend with- or rather, to accept. A sometime-post-Reichenbach story in two parts, no male pairing. Contains Mary, the puppy Gladstone and Christmas as well.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.

**Author's notes:** This story consists of two parts and is set some time after Sherlock's return, John and Mary are married. It furthermore fits with my story "Best Man" but doesn't contain any spoilers for season 3 (and you don't need to have read the other one in order to follow).

I'm not a native English speaker, so I apologize for any mistakes.

Enjoy!

**o**

**Same Same But Different**

**o**

Sherlock stepped out of the cab and straightened up, taking a moment to look at the house in front of him. It was ordinary in every sense, well-kept and unassuming, one among many. The neighbourhood was quiet and nice enough, Notting Hill of all places. It turned out that Mary Watson, neé Morstan, had come from a moderately wealthy family, thus bringing her own town house into the marriage.

If John was uncomfortable with it, he didn't let it on. He had left Baker Street while Sherlock had officially been dead, rented a bedsit similar to the one he'd been in before he had met the consulting detective, and it had been a relief for him to move out of that again.

A chilly wind was blowing; Sherlock huddled deeper into his coat, not yet ready to announce his presence. From the outside, the house didn't look anything like John; it was too neat, too plain. John wasn't like that at all; there were complexities to his character which had surprised Sherlock, and which kept surprising him. He didn't think he'd ever met a more interesting person, including Jim Moriarty and The Woman. Their attraction was shallow, whereas John was _deep,_ if not very good at observing; his strengths were his intuition and the ability to listen to people. He was endlessly more patient than Sherlock, which had the advantage that he rarely missed something (even though he didn't always know what to do with it); he was still listening when others were already composing their answers in their heads.

It was a rare trait, Sherlock thought, but then, John was like that, always bringing light into the lives of others. It made him a good doctor and an even better friend. And Sherlock missed him terribly, but he was not going to say so, of course. His gaze wandered across the brick facade once more; no, he decided, definitely not like John at all.

The inside was different, though; Sherlock had not expected it, but it seemed Mary wasn't so shallow a character either. He'd anticipated marble floors and a cool interior design, probably similar to Irene Adler's house, if not as elegant, but he'd been wrong. The house was... cosy, to say the least. There were rugs and pictures and a lot of books; dark woods, cream coloured curtains, splashes of colour everywhere. A Morrocan bowl here, a large glass with seashells there, a nautilus shell on the mantle, small fossilized ammonites all around.

Just as Sherlock appreciated the orderliness of a skeleton, be it human or animal, Mary was attracted to the smooth everlastingness of those spirals, the intricate design which inhered in their shapes.

It wasn't overcrowded though; it was homely and snug, probably exactly what John liked. No chemicals or body-parts, which he'd appreciate. Enough room for a Christmas tree, and a small garden at the back.

With a squaring of his shoulders, Sherlock orbited Mary's Mini which was taking up the small parking space that had replaced the front garden, and rang the bell.

* * *

He frowned as he almost immediately heard John's voice, slightly muffled: "No, Gladstone, _no_! I said 'stay'!" followed by an exasperated sigh: "Come here," before the door was opened.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow at the sight of his best friend, who was holding a wriggling, black-spotted puppy in his arms: "You've got a dog."

"Excellent deduction. Come in, will you?" John beckoned him into the hall with his head and turned around.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and followed his friend into the kitchen: "Did you just call him Gladstone?" he inquired.

John was still trying not to drop the small animal: "Gladstone, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, Gladstone."

The puppy was stretching its neck as far as it would go, trying to reach the detective with its nose. John stepped a little closer: "Come on, let him sniff your hand."

Sherlock frowned, but raised his hand nevertheless. Stilling, the puppy excitedly sniffed at his skin and began to lick his index finger with its tongue.

"Don't," Sherlock ordered, but Gladstone ignored him.

"He's still a baby, only nine weeks old," John said apologetically, withdrawing a little. Immediately, the dog began to wriggle again, but John set him down.

"So he _can_ walk," Sherlock commented. "Why did you get a dog?"

"Mary's always had dogs, and I like them too. So we decided to get one."

"Hm." Sherlock watched the puppy as it sniffed along his shoes and at his trouser legs. "A Dalmatian."

"Yes. And don't ask where the other 100 are, I've heard that one too often already."

"What are you talking about?"

"Right. I forgot you're not from this universe. The film, 101 Dalmatians? There was a huge billboard right next to the Thames at Lambeth with 101 mechanically wagging puppy tails when the film came out. Mid-90's. You must have seen it."

Sherlock shrugged: "Don't remember it."

"Well, whatever," John smiled as the puppy padded around the kitchen. "He's lovely."

"Why did you christen him Gladstone?"

"I saw the name in a book and I liked it. It's certainly better than _Spot_."

"He doesn't have that many spots."

"Not yet. They're going to show eventually."

"Are you sure? Maybe it's not a Dalmatian at all."

"Very funny. And don't say _it_. _He_'s got a name."

"Yes, I believe we have established that."

"Ignoring you now and moving on to making some tea."

Sherlock sat down at the table: "Lestrade called. They found the box, and the key fitted."

"Good," John didn't look up as he carefully measured out the tea, "he can book that one then."

"Hm." Sherlock was watching Gladstone: "Your dog just peed on the tiles."

"Oh, for- couldn't you have warned me?"

"How is it my fault?"

"It's not, it's just- he has to learn that he can't pee in the house. If we carry him outside quick enough, he'll learn it eventually."

"Huh."

John quickly mopped the puddle up, then washed his hands and returned to making tea. Just as he was putting sugar and cream on the table, Mary appeared: "Oh, hi," she smiled at Sherlock, "I thought I had heard the doorbell." She walked round the table and pecked him on the cheek. He was still a little bewildered that she was taking such liberties whenever they met, but it wasn't altogether as objectionable as he had feared. Mary smelled nice, and she didn't usually touch him much apart from the kisses.

John put three cups on the table: "Do we have some cookies left?"

Mary, who had bent down to scratch Gladstone behind the ears, straightened up: "In the pantry, if you haven't eaten them."

"Goody." John rubbed his hands together and disappeared in the adjoining pantry.

* * *

Mary surreptitiously glanced at Sherlock a few times when they were all seated at the table. He hadn't taken off his coat, but he seemed at ease. He usually was the most relaxed when he had just solved a case, something she had noted and John had confirmed. He certainly wasn't the easiest person to have around, but he didn't intimidate her either.

She had taken to watching him when she got the chance, and she found that he was often acting around other people. He had been rather silent in her presence at first, but she had decided to ignore it, and had treated him like any other friend of John's. She knew that he was anything but, of course. Her husband wasn't gay or bisexual, which made his and Sherlock's relationship more special: John clearly loved Sherlock, and the feeling seemed mutual as far as Sherlock was able to love; his affection wasn't as evident as John's, whose eyes lit up when Sherlock came in, but Mary had witnessed it surfacing a few times.

She didn't plan on competing with Sherlock, which would have been impossible anyway. John's heart was big enough for the both of them, of that she was sure. She wouldn't go as far as comparing them to being like brothers, but their bond was evidently deep. And she herself found that she liked Sherlock; she very much preferred his no-nonsense manner to fake friendliness, and he had something about him which made her want to take him under her wings a bit; she was actually glad that John was looking out for him. He seemed remarkably frail sometimes, and John had told her that he tended to neglect himself when he was busy.

"Are you going to spend Christmas with us?" she asked him. "We're going to stay here and have a tremendous meal all by ourselves. Which means we'll have tremendous leftovers later. You could stay overnight."

"Yeah, Harry's not coming," John said, "can't be bothered."

They both sounded casual, but Sherlock suspected that they carefully planned this. John knew that Mrs Hudson was going to be at her sister's for the holidays, and he didn't want Sherlock to be alone. Or rather, to _feel_ alone, which was a significant difference.

"I'll think about it," Sherlock replied.

John pushed the plate with the cookies towards him, a wordless invitation to eat which Sherlock chose to ignore. He looked around the kitchen again, noticing that Gladstone had climbed into what looked like an advanced dog basket made of fake leather, curling in on himself, a small, snuffling bundle; he sleepily blinked his eyes open now and then, making sure that the humans were still there, but dozed off eventually.

* * *

The next time Sherlock called round, Gladstone had grown a few inches but still had the typical, chubby baby dog looks. He seemed to recognize Sherlock and wagged his tail, then ran off to fetch a toy, a colourful knotted cotton rope which he continued to clumsily nudge against Sherlock's lower leg.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked irritably, at which Gladstone nudged him once more, tail wagging madly.

John snorted: "What do you think he wants?"

Frowning, Sherlock bent down and took hold of the end which was hanging from the dog's muzzle, at which the animal immediately tried to pull away. Sherlock gripped the rope tighter, and Gladstone happily pulled more vigorously.

"He's grinning," Sherlock observed, "can dogs do that?"

John, who was smiling at the two, shrugged: "I've been told some Dalmatians can smile, but in all fairness it's probably just looking like they do. I doubt that dogs are aware of the concept at all, since baring their teeth usually means something entirely different."

"Hm. He's quite strong."

"Yeah," John laughed. "And watch out for those milk teeth, they are razor-sharp."

Sherlock played with Gladstone ("nonsense, I don't _play_; I just held the rope for him so he'd stop bothering me") until the puppy tired of the game. John gave him a stick to chew on, with which he quickly retreated, lying down under the table.

"It's made from rawhide," he explained, "good for his teeth."

"So I gather."

John eyed the little dog affectionately: "He's very clever, too. He's already figured out how to sneak onto the sofa when we're not watching."

When Sherlock left half an hour later, he couldn't but think about the way John was talking about Gladstone: he might as well have been talking about a child.

* * *

In the end, Sherlock decided to accept the invitation and spend Christmas with the Watsons. Plural, still unfamiliar. He had hesitated, not wanting to intrude, but the prospect of being alone in 221B wasn't very inviting.

Ever since he had come back after those two years, he found it much more difficult to be on his own. The void which John had left (not true, that: the void which John-and-he had left is more to the point) was too large, too empty, too dark. He had no intentions to fall back into old habits, but on some nights he was very tempted to tread the well-known paths which would have supplied him with whatever he'd have wished for. What always stopped him was the certain knowledge that John would never forgive him if he'd ever use recreational drugs again.

With these thoughts in mind, Sherlock left the flat to find some Christmas gifts.

* * *

"Come in, make yourself at home," Mary had opened the door when Sherlock rang the bell at six p.m. on Christmas Eve. "I'm at a critical stage with the soufflé, John's somewhere in the house. Probably lying under the tree. It already toppled over once." With a smile, she disappeared in the kitchen.

Sherlock set the bag with his gifts and the violin case down and hung up his coat, then he went into the living room. Gladstone came running to greet him, tail wagging, and the detective bent down to pet his soft, round head. John wasn't visible anywhere in the room. A fire was burning in the fireplace, and there was a magnificent Christmas tree (untoppled) with presents underneath.

Sherlock took a closer look at one of them, then at Gladstone: "You chewed on the present over there," he said, "bad dog."

Gladstone wagged his tail even more vigorously. When Sherlock picked up the slightly damaged present (a book, from the looks and feel of it), the puppy sat down expectantly, staring up at Sherlock as if he were Santa himself.

"This isn't for you," Sherlock told him and put the book on the table. Gladstone tilted his head and began to hiccup. With a sigh, Sherlock sat down on the rug, which the puppy perceived as an invitation to play; he leapt up and lowered his chest to the ground with outstretched forelegs, still wagging his tail. Sherlock teased him by pretending to try and grab him, and Gladstone gleefully jumped back and forth.

They were interrupted when John came in. He sighed when he saw the ruined book: "It's no use to punish him now, he wouldn't understand why," he says. "Hi Sherlock, by the way. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Sherlock answered. Gladstone, sensing that he the attention wasn't on him any longer, clumsily climbed into Sherlock's lap, settling down with a yawn. Sherlock was tempted to push him off, but the little dog's warm weight was rather pleasant, and he was peering up at the detective with one large, brown eye as if daring him.

"He's definitely grinning _now_," John said, crouching down next to them as Sherlock gently scratched the puppy's belly, which was mostly hairless yet: "You're such a clown," he said affectionately, stroking the small head. Gladstone wriggled a bit, obviously enjoying their joined ministrations, and nibbled at John's fingers.

* * *

When Mary came in with drinks a few minutes later, John and Sherlock were still sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, and Gladstone was napping in the detective's lap, his hand still on the animal's belly. Mary paused for a moment, taking a mental picture of the scene; when she had met John, Sherlock had been gone, and he had taken a large part of John's soul with him. He had taken a long time to even remotely recover, had done his best to move on, if not for himself, then at least for her.

She knew he had made an effort to be his old self, but in comparison to now he had still been reduced to something incredibly fragile; he had been hollowed out, a shell, ready to break any moment. People who didn't know him very well merely saw lovable, sturdy, reliable John Watson, soldiering on with admirable braveness. He almost fooled Mary as well when they first met, but there were moments when his susceptibilites showed through. The closer they became, the more distinctive she perceived his pain.

On the anniversary of Sherlock's death John seemed like a wraith, drifting through the day without seeing anything, or anyone. That night, he had clung to her, sleepless, tearless, staring into the darkness with wide-open eyes, not wanting to see the pictures which haunted him when he closed them. Mary had turned on a lamp, which had at least slowed down his racing heart a bit. Later, he had wept, and she found that she possibly loved him even more.

* * *

She looked at the two and was happy for the both of them, glad that their suffering had come to an end. Before Sherlock had returned, she had felt sympathy and concern for John, but never for his allegedly dead friend, simply because she hadn't known him. She had of course read the papers and had listened to what John had told her about him, but he had still been abstract, a stranger out of reach.

A shudder ran down her spine when she realized that it'd be different now; she'd be grieving for this man, would take it hard. She remembered something Mrs Hudson had told her once: "Sherlock Holmes has a way to get into you heart," she had said, and Mary understood her now.

Sherlock had definitely made his way into her heart, somehow. Perhaps it's all the loneliness he exuded when he sat quietly, wrapped in his coat and silence; perhaps it's the way he alienated people by being rude, which Mary took as the opposite: he didn't want to offend everyone, he just couldn't help it. He needed people to see through his mask, which most of them were incapable of.

It's a sign how much he valued John (and, she liked to think, her by extension, hoping she's not entirely wrong) that he's here on this evening, that he's calm, had even brought his violin.

She blinked and moved towards the coffee table before the men realized she'd been contemplating them; when she put the drinks tray down, she saw the chewed-on book. "Gladstone! You naughty dog!" At the mention of his name, Gladstone briefly opened one eye to look at her; he wagged his tail once, then lay still again, obviously comfortable in Sherlock's lap. Mary didn't have the heart to tell Sherlock that he was very likely going to be covered in dog hair; he'd find out about that soon enough.

* * *

Mary was a good cook, dinner therefore was very enjoyable. John had gotten crackers which he insisted they pull between desert and espresso, and he told Mary how Mrs Hudson as a joke had gotten antlers for Sherlock on the first Christmas they spent together.

"You didn't wear them, did you?" she asked.

"No," Sherlock said curtly. "Only briefly for her to see what they looked like. She wouldn't let it go otherwise."

Mary laughed at the image of Sherlock with antlers.

"I tried them too," John admitted. "Though they looked better on him."

"Yeah, not many people can get away with that look." Sherlock smirked.

* * *

He didn't stay overnight. Mary went to bed around midnight, and he and John sat on the sofa a while longer, alternately talking and being silent; they both had had a little too much wine, and after a while, John dozed off.

Sherlock quietly put his presents under the tree and his violin back in its case. He had just put on his coat in the hall when he heard quiet footsteps behind him.

"You're not going to stay?" John asked, sounding woozy with tiredness and a little disappointed. He seemed to have anticipated something like that, however; before Sherlock could answer, his friend handed him a wrapped present: "Here. This is for you."

"Thank you." Sherlock gave him a small smile.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John."

* * *

Mrs Hudson had put up the Christmas decorations in 221B before she had left; the fairy lights, which were being run on a timer, were still on when Sherlock got home. He put the violin case and the present down and went over to the window; there was no snow that night, only a cold wind blowing. Baker Street seemed empty, abandoned.

_You're tired_, Sherlock told himself. _Go to bed_.

In the end, he stayed up until the early morning.

* * *

**o**

**To Be Continued**

**o**

**PS **I'm aware that in ACD canon, Gladstone is a Bulldog. I know nothing about Bulldogs, however, so I decided to change his breed.

**o**

Thank you for reading, please leave some feedback.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.

**o**

**Same Same But Different**

**o**

John stared into the increasing darkness of a winter afternoon. Christmas Day had been quiet and cosy so far; Mary and he had enjoyed a late, unhurried breakfast before opening their presents.

"These are from Sherlock," John had pointed out, and Mary had made an almost sorrowful sound: "It's a pity he wouldn't stay," she said. "Do you think he didn't like it here?"

"No," John replied, pensively, "I think he did."

"Maybe it was too much," Mary mused, and John once more marvelled at how wise she was, how perceptive.

The present he unwrapped had been carefully chosen- a set of Sennheiser wireless headphones. John chuckled when he saw them, at the same time feeling guilty because of the probably ridiculous amount of money Sherlock had spent on those.

"Brilliant," Mary exclaimed, "saves a lot of nerves, too."

"Haha," John said, but she was right; he liked to lie on the sofa and listen to his old records before going to bed, but he usually dozed off and found himself entangled in the cables. He had complained about it back in Baker Street and he had complained about it after he had moved in with Mary, but it never occured to him to get new headphones, not even after he had accidentally ripped one of the cables out; he gave them to Mike Stamford instead, whose hobby it was to repair old radios, and who fixed the headphones for John.

Mary unwrapped a square cardboard box roughly three inches wide; it was rather heavy. When she opened it, she found an ammonite, nestled in wrapping tissue. It was exactly the size of her palm, heavy and yet delicate, frailty turned into stone. It was ever so slightly iridescent, displaying a faint glow of browns and reds. "It's beautiful," Mary murmured, weighing the fossil in her hand. John smiled, wishing Sherlock was there with them.

"Yes," he agreed quietly, suddenly thinking of bat's wings. "He's got an eye for things like that."

And now John was wondering what Sherlock was doing, whether he _was_ feeling lonely. Why he chose to be on his own on a day like this. He was itching to get up and visit Baker Street, just to make sure, but he didn't want to mother his friend. No one had forced Sherlock to leave, after all. John sighed, absent-mindedly stroking Gladstone.

* * *

Sherlock didn't get up before the early evening. He'd been awake since noon, but he didn't fancy leaving the warm cocoon of his bed. There was nothing to do anyway, no one to talk to (or at), and the idea of watching TV or reading or even playing the violin was less than appealing. So he simply lay curled up under his sheet and blanket and contemplated his life.

The evening at John's had been rather pleasant, but he had soon realized it had been a mistake to accept the invitation. Mary-and-John was not the same as Sherlock-and-John; life in their house was not the same as life in Baker Street. It's not like Sherlock's life, not in the least. In their house, they'd always have contentment and food and love. They'd always have the routine of day and night, of clear rights and wrongs.

John-in-Baker Street did change when he was in his new home, which was all right, but it's not something which would happen to Sherlock; Sherlock could only ever be the same. He had other rights and wrongs, a different rhythm, no routine.

Spending one evening at their place was fine, but he didn't dare to overdo it. He had noticed it when John and he had been talking and not talking on the sofa; he had gotten tired, would have been strangely content with going to bed in the guestroom, let his fatigue take over. It seemed possible in this house, which was not usual for him at all, so he had fled.

He stared at the ceiling, realizing he hadn't heard from Mycroft in days; it was possible his brother wasn't even in the country.

At one point, he noticed that he was vaguely hungry, but he ignored it; he didn't think he had anything edible in the fridge anyway, and he had after all eaten on the day before.

* * *

When lying in bed became too boring, Sherlock finally got up. He took a shower and dressed in fresh nightwear and his blue dressing-gown, then he paced around the living room. His gaze fell on the present John had given him and he paused; staying in motion was preferable to sitting down, since he hadn't lit the fire and couldn't be bothered to, hence it was rather cold; his curiosity however prevailed eventually.

"You'll have to turn your phone off," the apparently self-made card said, and inside he found two tickets for _Turandot_. There was a box enclosed which held a tie. Sherlock frowned at it for a moment, then he recognized that the pattern was actually made up of tiny little skulls.

Grinning, he regarded the tickets; John was obviously planning on going with him. Warmth made itself known in the pit of his stomach. He took his phone and quickly typed a message:

_Maybe I'll just turn off the sound. S_

John's answer came almost immediately: _As long as you don't run out in the middle. J_

Sherlock's mouth twitched: _Not during Turandot. S_

_Good. Thank you for the headphones, they're awesome. And M. loves her ammonite. J_

_It seemed a suitable gift. S_

_You okay? J_

_Yes. _

_See you soon. J_

Sherlock stared at this last message and suddenly couldn't help but feeling bereft of something, losing all the comforting warmth he had experienced earlier. He put his phone down and got up, taking up the pacing again. He didn't know what else to do, and it was better than subjecting himself to the paralytic sensation of loneliness which had swept over him just before. Better than going out and finding a dealer.

Pacing helped; the drumming of his pulse in his ears helped to drown out the ache which had spread through his body, an ache which had originated in his heart of all places, and which he hadn't known before he had met John. He craved an antidote, a remedy, something to keep him occupied and take his mind off the fact that having John there had briefly come closest to having a family, someone he felt he truly belonged to. John had been his friend, brother, father, confidant, and he missed him more than he'd have thought possible. It was annoying, and on some days and nights made it difficult to concentrate on something different.

Maybe he should have stayed, should have endured the John-and-Mary-ness. Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes; coping with issues like that had never been his forte, but if one thing seemed clear to him, it was that he'd better accept that John irrevocably was part of something else now. At least Sherlock liked Mary, she wasn't as insufferable as most of the women John had dated before. Sherlock could try and pretend that it'd make things easier, that John wasn't entirely lost to him.

During his more rational moments, on days on which he didn't feel so alone and had other things on his mind, he was aware that he was being melodramatic, because John was still his friend and probably always would be, but on what his brother would call a Danger Night, John seemed far away and unreachable.

Those times, Sherlock didn't go to bed at all.

* * *

Two days later, Mary was just swearing like a sailor while trying to pour fresh water into the Christmas tree stand and inadvertently making a mess when the doorbell rang. She wiped her hands on her jeans and went to open the door; it was Sherlock.

"Hi," she said, "did I know you were coming?"

"Not unless you're clairvoyant."

Mary beckoned him in and lead the way to the kitchen, doing her best not to show how surprised she was.

Sherlock looked around for Gladstone as he followed her, but the dog was absent.

"John has taken Gladstone to the park, they should be back soon," Mary said while she put on the kettle to make some tea."Thank you for the ammonite, by the way."

"I had to choose between the one you've got and another one which had aptychi. Fascinating. But I thought you'd like the iridescence."

"I do. What are... aptychi anyway?"

"They functioned as jaws. Took years and lots of debate to determine what they were, and some scientist insist that they were used to close the shell instead."

"Like operculi."

"Yes."

Smiling, Mary pushed back her hair to reveal her earrings, which were made of a pair of operculi set in silver.

"Shiva's eyes, people call them," she said.

Sherlock didn't look as though he approved of that name, but he kept silent. Mary thought he seemed exhausted: the skin underneath his eyes had a bluish tint, and there was a slight droop in his shoulders which he normally didn't allow himself. It wasn't her place to ask, however, and she was afraid he might get up and leave if she did.

Pondering this, she poured the tea and sat down opposite of him, at a loss of what to say next.

"I was sceptic towards you," Sherlock said after a few moments of silence.

Mary hadn't anticipated this, so she just raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on.

"John had a few girlfriends while we were living together," he continued, avoiding her gaze. "None of which lasted very long. I know that Mrs Hudson blames me for that."

He paused, and Mary felt compelled to chime in: "Which isn't justified."

Sherlock frowned contemplatively: "Well, no. Not entirely."

Mary quickly raised her cup to her mouth to hide her expression: "O-kay?"

"Anyway," Sherlock said, still not looking at her. "He seems much more relaxed with you than he has been around any of them."

"Good to hear," Mary stated drily.

"And it's been different from the start, of course. You two have met while I was gone. Which probably did redound to your advantage."

Mary found it increasingly hard to keep a straight face. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, however: "I think John has been lucky to find you." He fiddled with his teaspoon: "He's happy here."

Mary sat down her cup now, a little bewildered: "Err... thanks. Why are you telling me this?"

At that, Sherlock finally met her eyes, regarding her for a moment before speaking: "I'm not like John," he said. "He's got a very big heart whereas I tend to put people out. With words or by actions."

Mary only barely managed not to say _I've noticed_.

"I don't think _normal _and I go well together," Sherlock added, falling silent. "Just so you're aware."

He clearly expected her to say something, so she cleared her throat: "So... you don't think John is normal?"

"No. John is extraordinary most of the time."

"But I'm not?" She sounded strangely amused.

"I can't say yet. I'd need more data. But the fact that John married you is exceptional."

"You know... it's not like John - or I - need your permission, but I'm glad that you can suffer my presence."

Sherlock had the decency to squirm a little at her sarcastic words. Mary however wasn't done yet: "I can imagine that it's difficult for you. You don't seem like someone who likes to share. But John's got his own head and you know that he never does anything he doesn't want to. He is your friend, and that won't change." Her expression saddened: "You should have seen him while you were away. He was only half of what he is now."

Sherlock nodded, something akin to guilt flittering across his face.

* * *

They were both relieved when they heard the front door open, followed by John's voice: "Stop. I need to wipe your paws first. ... Stop squirming, you can go and find Mary as soon as all this mud's off..."

A minute later, Gladstone came bounding into the kitchen, his whole body wagging with delight as he greeted Sherlock, then Mary, then Sherlock again.

John followed a little slower: "Sherlock! That's why Gladstone wouldn't keep still," He beamed. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighbourhood," Sherlock lied. He didn't have another reason for dropping by than wanting to see John.

They had never taken on the habit of greeting each other with a hug or suchlike, but John now briefly rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder before fetching a third cup and sitting down.

Gladstone had in the meantime found his rope toy again and was scrabbling at Sherlock's leg with his paws in order to get his attention.

"No," John told him, "get down."

Sherlock reached down to hoist the puppy up and onto his lap. His father had had Setters for the hunt, but they'd been a little intimidating and Sherlock hadn't been allowed to get too near; they'd always been strangers to him. Gladstone was nothing of the sort; he settled down with a content little grunt, apparently feeling at ease.

"Great," John smirked, "he's barely twelve weeks old and already way too spoiled."

"I'm not feeding him off the table, am I?" Sherlock said.

"You'll be covered in dog hair again."

"I can live with that."

"Who'd have thought."

They stared at each other sternly for a moment, then broke into identical grins.

"Seriously, did you get his hair off your trousers the other day?" Mary asked. Dalmatian hair was short, but had the tendency to get hooked in most kinds of fabric, making it very difficult to remove.

"Yes. I looked it up on the internet, and there's a trick."

"Do tell."

"Using rubber gloves to work them off. Works wonders."

"I've got to try that."

"Please do me a favour, Sherlock, and buy new ones for Mrs Hudson before she comes home."

Sherlock, who was busy fending off Gladstone's tongue as the small dog tried to lick his face, only grumbled in response.

John shared a look with Mary, who shrugged, smiling: _You know him better than I do_, her eyes said.

* * *

On January 1st, John and Gladstone called round at Baker Street around noon; Sherlock had not celebrated the New Year, but he was still in his nightclothes and dressing gown, sitting at his microscope. Gladstone, after greeting him enthusiastically, was sniffing through the flat while John leaned against the worktop: "Coming for a walk?"

"It's minus five degrees."

"I vaguely remember that you do have clothes other than what you're wearing now. A coat comes to mind, too."

"Fine." Sherlock scribbled something on a notepad, then got up and disappeared in his bedroom.

Ten minutes later, they were on their way to Regent's Park. It was indeed chilly, but a feeble sun had come out and was bathing the city in pale gold; a nice change from the dull grey days which lay beyond.

"Why are you carrying Gladstone?" Sherlock asked.

"Puppies shouldn't run too much when they're still that young," John said, "it's not good for their joints while they are still growing."

"I don't think he agrees," Sherlock pointed out, since Gladstone was whining and trying to escape.

"No, but I don't want him to suffer from dysplasia when he's grown up. I'll put him down in the park."

"And he said _I_ was spoiling that dog," Sherlock muttered.

"It's not spoiling, it's reason," John said. "Besides, my leave's ending tomorrow, so I'll have much less time for him."

He was working regular hours at a day hospital five days a week; since Mary, who was a translator, was working from home, Gladstone would be taken care of, but John found that he was going to miss the little guy.

"Well, you'll be looking forward to seeing him," Sherlock said innocently, "it'll be special every time."

John, having his hands full, playfully bumped his shoulder into the taller man's arm in retaliation: "Idiot," he breathed, but his voice was affectionate. "But you're right."

Sherlock sighed, glancing at Gladstone, who was fidgeting in John's firm grasp: another proof of just how big his friend's heart was.

He smiled.

**o**

**The End  
**

**o**

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